


Let it be okay

by Mix Stitch (Synph)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Future Fic, Gen, Harm to Children, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Snark, Snarky Stiles, Stalking, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/pseuds/Mix%20Stitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's their last few months before graduation and just once, Stiles would like to exist without something freaky and violent coming to kill them for no good reason. </p><p>After Scott and Stiles' pack takes in a family of werewolves on the run from their own pack, Stiles winds up in a pretty bad situation with the absolute last person he ever expected to be stuck with. With werewolves at the doors and an injury that Stiles can't figure out how to fix, things go from bad to worse and Stiles… Well Stiles doesn't know if they'll survive until the cavalry comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristen84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristen84/gifts).



> This is a commission in progress for tristen84 and a major labor of love. I wanted to think about the Teen Wolf characters as they could've been and so while I pulled a bit from latter seasons (Allison Argent's desire to sort of rebrand the Argents and Derek's thing where he turns into a full wolf), this is more like my take on the series as it could've been post season two. 
> 
> (Also I'd like to shout out to my beta bae Fleetsparrow who is a true treasure!)
> 
> The third and final part will be up shortly!

There's a family of werewolves on Stiles' lawn.

Straight up, an actual family of werewolves pulls up in a station wagon older than Stiles' dad is around lunchtime on the first day of spring break.

Stiles doesn't have super werewolf-y senses, but there are three other werewolves in the house with him and his dad, and one of them just happens to be both his best friend and standing right beside him on the screened-in patio.

Scott's nostrils flare and there's a hint of crimson around the edges of his irises before he blinks twice and his eyes are back to their normal color.

"What's wrong?" Stiles asks because of course something's wrong. This is Beacon Hills. If nothing was wrong, there wouldn't be four werewolves outside and Scott definitely wouldn't be pulling back on the werewolf mojo. He glances away from the window and the family hovering just outside the new rowan fence that rings the house and actually looks at Scott. "Is there something –"

Scott nods, a sudden serious expression settling on his face.

"They're afraid," he says quietly. "I can smell it from here."

Never one to back away from a challenge or a new adventure, Stiles claps a hand across Scott's back, hitting hard enough that Scott actually jerks forward before he catches himself. Stiles grins when Scott turns to him with a faintly annoyed twist to his mouth.

"What?"

"Was that _really_ necessary?" Scott asks with a tiny frown on his mouth. He doesn't give Stiles a chance to answer though, turning back to look at the family standing on the lawn. "Can you – can you do me a favor?"

Stiles shrugs, but he's already nodding his head. "Yeah," Stiles says. "Sure."

"I'm going to go get my mom and Allison from the kitchen," Scott says. "I need you to grab Isaac and meet me up front." Scott turns and sort of takes off before Stiles can let himself get all worked up on principle. He only pauses once, just outside the doorway. "And please, Stiles. Don't start a fight."

Stiles scoffs, affronted, but then he falls silent because he really _can't_ say anything. Just because he's almost eighteen, that doesn't mean that he's really _that_ much more mature than he was as a kid. It does, however, mean that Stiles is a little bit smarter about keeping his snark to himself.

"I'll do it. I'll do it," Stiles says even though Scott has been absent from the doorway for about ten seconds by the time that Stiles deigns to gracefully respond. Stiles shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and then heads for the door, muttering the entire time as if every werewolf in the house doesn't already know his mood.

*

Isaac is sitting on the steps when Stiles makes it out to the back porch where Kira and Allison are operating the grill. He's dressed the way he always is: baggy jeans, a thin t-shirt and a ridiculously preppy scarf in the middle of spring. He stands up before Stiles can call for him, one hand going to his hair as if it's instinct for him to fuss with his hair before interacting with people.

"Scott needs us out front, scarfboy," Stiles says, bracing his hand on the doorjamb as Isaac turns to look at him. He knows he's being both immature and unfair, but honestly, this is the best stress response that Stiles has had to unannounced werewolves in a _long_ time. He could be like his dad -- you know, if anyone in Beacon Hills would let him so much as _look_ into getting a license to carry a gun.  "We've got a situation."

Snark – even utterly unnecessary and poorly aimed snark – has to be better than the immediate lunge for a shot gun that every single adult in the house without claws tends to go for.

"Did he say what was wrong?" Isaac asks.

"Strange werewolves on the front lawn," Stiles says with a shrug. "We have to figure out their motives and see if they're here for the Argent's supernatural safe house program or what. You know the usual." Stiles waits for Isaac to walk up the stairs to stand beside him, feeling fidgety as Isaac comes closer.

Isaac frowns. "More werewolves?"

"Well they're not vampires," Stiles mutters darkly, shooting Isaac a mildly annoyed look. "Why would Scott want you there if not to handle other werewolves?" Okay so… Stiles isn't exactly nice about it but he can't help himself. There's something about Isaac where he just manages to get on Stiles' last nerve even when the situation doesn't call for it.

Isaac shoots Stiles a nasty look but otherwise doesn't say the angry words that he wants to say. After two years of Stiles being his usual dickish self, Isaac rarely rises to the bait anymore.

"I couldn't smell them," Isaac says. "Not back here. Is any one of them an alpha?"

Stiles shrugs. "No idea," he replies. "Scott went all red-eyed for a second but if he could tell that one of them was an alpha from behind the fence, I'll eat my hat." Stiles scrubs a hand over his scalp, over the bare patches of hair that prick at his palms from his last too-short haircut. "But it's a family," Stiles says, all snark lost in the wake of dealing with this new development. "Mom, dad, and two kids. I doubt they're here to start a fight over territory."

Isaac snorts, shaking his head. "It wouldn't be the first time someone used their kids to get into one of the safe houses," he says, sounding more bitter than any seventeen-year old has any right to. "Scott is smart to get backup on this."

"Hopefully we won't need it," Stiles says as he follows Isaac into the house.

"Hopefully," Isaac agrees.

*

No matter what Stiles goes through as a result of his relationship with the supernatural, he's never really forgotten that werewolves, sirens, and the occasional _kitsune_ are people too. The Deveraux family exemplifies that.

They’re the average nuclear family, the sort of people that sitcoms revolve around. There’s a dad (Etienne), a mom (Lola), the long-suffering teenage son (Nick), and a precocious little daughter (Tabitha). All of them are werewolves, but none of them are very powerful. It’s the daughter that seals the deal for Scott about whether the family is in need of the sort of aid that the pack and the Argent’s system of Northern California safehouses can provide.

Tabitha Deveraux is five, a small five, and she sort of looks the way that Stiles remembers Lydia looking when they were five. She’s a tiny kid and she looks even smaller while cradled on her mother’s hip with one small hand fisted in the front of her mother’s worn cable-knit sweater. Red hair the color of copper tumbles over her shoulders and hides her round face from view.

Honestly, if Stiles were anything other than a totally mature high school senior, he’d be well on his way to cooing. But he isn’t so he doesn’t.

Once they’re in through the rowan fence and crammed into the downstairs den of Stiles’ family home, the Deveraux family relaxes.

Even Stiles with his average human senses can see the way that the family (especially the parents) seems to release all of the tension stiffening their shoulders. Stiles’ PS4 distracts the son, Nick, and after a while, even tiny Tabitha is able to be coaxed out her mother’s arms in favor of a hastily slapped together plate of food courtesy of Allison and Scott’s mom.

“So,” Scott says when the kids are too busy to pay attention to the conversation, “What are you running from?”

The Deverauxes share a quiet, guarded look. Seconds later, the mother, Lola, answers.

“Our pack,” she says quietly, eyes downcast as if she doesn’t dare look at Scott or any other member of his pack. Hunched over with her shoulders kind of dipping inward, she looks as if she’s expecting a blow rather than actual help and Stiles actually has to bite his tongue before he blurts out the wrong thing in an attempt to help.

Scott frowns, displeasure so strong that it all but fills the room. “Why are you running away from your pack?”

Stiles is expecting – well he’s not sure _what_ he’s expecting but what comes out of the Deverauxes mouth isn’t it.

“We’re being chased by our alpha and our old pack,” Lola’s husband Etienne says. “All because of our children. He wants to take them away from us.”

“ _Why_?” Stiles asks before Scott has a chance to talk. “Why would anyone want that? They’re just kids!”

The Deverauxes share another look, one loaded with meaning.

“They’re going to be alphas,” Etienne says quietly. “I don’t know how – no one in our families has ever been an alpha before – but both Tabby and Nick can shift and that makes them a threat. I don’t know if our old alpha wants to kill them or if he wants to use them, but no matter what, he can’t have them.” Etienne’s eyes flash blue, the sign of a beta that has killed before, and a rumbling growl echoes through the room.

Stiles glances at Scott and Isaac just in time to see both pairs of eyes widen.

“When you say shift –“ Scott starts to say.

“A full shift,” Lola fills in. “It takes them a little while to do it, but both of our kids can turn into full wolves. Tabby’s been doing it since birth almost but Nicholas can do it too.”

“That’s –" Scott stalls, visibly at a loss for words. Stiles doesn’t blame him. Out of all the werewolves in the pack, he and Derek are the only ones that can do a full shift and Scott isn’t even a tenth as fast as Derek is when it comes to the change. He still struggles with it. Hearing that the two children in the room with them can do it and do it fast – that’s got to be a bit mind-blowing. “That’s –"

“That’s why we’re running,” Lola says with a frown on her face. “We did our best to keep the kids away from Marcus and his minions but one full moon, Tabby got stressed out before we could take her home and she shifted in front of him. The next day, he started trying to take kids away from us.”

“So you left?” Isaac says, speaking with a frown on his face.

“We had to,” Lola says intensely. “It was either that or lose our children to that monster and I wasn’t about to let that happen.” She pauses and sort of shakes herself as if in an attempt to collect herself. “We heard about the safehouses and about your pack from a friend of a friend, someone who knew about one of the omegas that you and your pack helped a few years ago. We took some time getting money together and we left New Orleans a few days ago.”

“Is your alpha coming after you?” Scott asks.

“We don’t know,” Lola says, frowning. “But he might.”

Scott frowns. “We’ll find out for you,” he says. He turns to look at where Chris Argent is doing his best to blend into the shadows. “Can you ask some of your contacts to look into this alpha for me?” Scott asks a question but everyone in the room knows it to be a politely worded command.

Chris Argent inclines his head with a nod, the sign of respect a far cry from the weird old dude that once threatened Stiles’ best friend over dessert as if it was something he did every day. “I’ll start tonight,” he says. “We have an empty apartment in the building that Braeden has been managing. The Deverauxes can stay there until something bigger opens up.”

Smiling, Scott turns to look at the Deverauxes. “You’ll be in good hands,” he promises. “Braeden is one of our best and she won’t let anything happen to any of you while you're on her property.”

“Is – is she part of your pack?”

“No,” Scott says, with a grin settling on his face that Stiles doesn’t bother trying to fight himself from mirroring. “Not really. She doesn't care for the pack structure, but trust me: there’s no one else that you’d want having your back in a fight.” He looks at the Deveraux family, really looks at them, and then nods his head. "You'll be safe here, I promise."


	2. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later, the Deveraux family's old alpha and a few of his minions descend on Beacon Hills.

_Two weeks later_

The Deveraux family's old alpha rides into town with a gang of werewolves that look like they drove straight out of an episode of _Sons of Anarchy_. They're all huge, burly werewolves that look as if they could snap Scott _and_ Derek in two without breaking a sweat.

At the same time.

No wonder the family left the first chance that they got.

Stiles, of course, is the first person to see the alpha and his minions ride in on their massive motorcycles. It's six o'clock in the afternoon and Stiles is halfway through a last-minute grocery run for the Deveraux family, picking up a few essentials that Scott's mom had forgotten to get the last time it was her turn to grab groceries. He hears the rumble of their bikes long before he sees them make the turn in front of Beacon Hill's biggest chain grocery store, a low thrumming hum that only gets louder and louder with every second that passes.

All together, there are six bikers.  None of them wearing helmets as they cruise down the main street without a care for the rules of traffic or the fact that they're taking up most of the street. At first glance, they don't look like werewolves. Not even to Stiles who spends most of his time around them. But then the alpha at the head of the pack turns his head slightly and the light from a streetlight glances off of them, turning his eyes a bright red like fresh blood.

Stiles doesn't think. He jams a hand into his pocket, pulling out his cellphone, and then dials Scott's number from memory. The second that Scott answers, Stiles blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"They're here," Stiles hisses into the mouthpiece of his phone. "They just rode down main street like they owned the road."

There's silence on the other end of the phone, silence as Scott takes in Stiles' words.

"I'll let everyone know," Scott says a second later, worry obvious in his voice. "Will you be okay out there?"

Stiles shrugs even though there's no one around to appreciate the artful carelessness of it all.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Stiles says, glancing at the pack as they rumble off east. "They weren't close enough to sniff me and I didn't look at them long enough to read as a threat. Besides, I should be worrying about _you_ , dude. You're the freaking alpha in between that 'roid-raging alpha and what he wants."'

Scott grunts into the phone. "I'm not worried," he says. "The family is behind mountain ash and with people I trust. I'll handle that alpha and his pack. They have to learn that they won't always get what they want, especially if that means hurting people and their families."

At times like this, when something has Scott so angry that he starts to get a little too into his lectures, Stiles gets it. He gets why people come from across the country to ask for Scott's help, why his best friend's status as a true alpha isn't contested. There's something in Scott, something genuinely good and innocent wrapped around a core of pure steel.

Unlike everyone else Stiles seems to know (from Derek right on down to Kira), Scott isn't bloodthirsty in the slightest. He's always able to see the bright and nonlethal side to things, where another alpha – or hell, just Stiles, himself – would be all but foaming for the mouth and ready to start a fight.

"Do you need me to do anything?" Stiles asks. "I'm out and all already… If you need more silver or some wolfsbane, I'm your guy." As to where Stiles would _get_ wolfsbane and silver… eh… Deaton probably won't notice if Stiles shimmies in through the basement window of the clinic and helps himself to a few things. After all, it'd be for a good cause.

"Nah," Scott says. "I think we're good. Once you get back to your dad's place, then everyone will be somewhere safe. We'll come up with a plan from there."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles mutters, not entirely convinced that everyone will actually be safe enough to fend off an assault from burly werewolf bikers with an axe to grind (in their _heads_ ). "I'll head back now. Let me know if anything changes."

*

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles' cell phone rings and Scott's goofy ass grin plasters across the front of the device.  He's driving now and he really shouldn't be answering it, but he swipes his index finger across the green answer button anyway.

"Hey, Scott!"

"Nick's gone," Scott blurts out.

Stiles nearly slams on the brakes out of shock. "He's gone," Stiles repeats. "What do you mean, he's _gone_?"

"He must have been listening in on my phone call, because when I turned around, he was gone," Scott says. "There must have been a gap in the mountain ash circle around the house, something small, because he's gone. Just – gone."

Stiles grits his teeth. "Do you need me to go looking for him?"

"Would you?" Scott asks. "I can't leave my mom alone, not now."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles mutters. "But I'm going to need some help. I'm only human and me looking for a werewolf on my lonesome is going to take too long."

Scott hums his approval. "Okay, sure. Isaac's out by the preserve. I'll let him know that you're on your way and he'll be out there when you swing by."

*

Stiles breaks several laws on his way to the preserve.

He speeds along the backroads of Beacon Hills and even blows through a red light or two on his way. He cringes at the last one because while most of the cops overlook his moderately reckless driving because they've known him since he was in diapers, they're not likely to let him off the hook for something as serious as blowing past a red light.

"Crap, crap, _crap_ ," Stiles says emphatically, glancing over his shoulder as he strains to hear even the faintest sounds of sirens that might be his ticket to a night in lockup and one of his dad's famous lectures.

Thankfully, aside from a few drivers going back into the town proper, the road is empty. No cops, no hulked out werewolves on motorbikes. It's just Stiles and his jeep. Soon, it'll be Stiles, his jeep, and… Isaac.

Stiles frowns down at his steering wheel as his grip tightens.

Nothing against Scott, but couldn't he have picked _anyone_ better to go with him on this hunt? Derek isn't exactly a charming conversationalist but at least he laughs with Stiles most of the time instead of _at_ him. Heck, Stiles would've even preferred to be crammed into the jeep with Erica and Boyd as their third wheel.

Stiles huffs out a sigh when he comes to the turn that leads to the preserves' north entrance, the side that's clear across the side from the main cabins that the park rents out to researchers and the occasional wealthy werewolf. He takes the turn a bit too fast, agitated and aggressive enough that the spray of gravel that spins out from his wheels actually makes him feel _good_ in a weird way.

Isaac is right there in the parking lot, leaning against the bike rack as though it only exists to prop him up. He's in jeans and another one of those ridiculous v-neck tees he seems to have stolen from the late (and much hated) Peter Hale. He's even wearing a scarf around his neck despite the fact that it's pushing eighty degrees that afternoon.

Parking near the entrance, Stiles slouches in his seat and pulls out his phone so that he can text Scott.

> **Stiles** : The package has been acquired. Scarfboy en-route to the car.
> 
> **Wolfboy:** U r so weird.
> 
> **Stiles:** You know it. Any updates?
> 
> **Wolfboy:** EricaandBoyd saw the alphas but no kid.
> 
> **Stiles:** Gotcha. Will keep you posted. Stay safe.
> 
> **Wolfboy:** U2

"You sure took your time," is the very first thing that Stiles says when Isaac finally gets in the jeep. He doesn't mean to say it, but as always, his mouth is ahead of his brain and he blurts the words out without even thinking.

Isaac rolls his eyes. "You could've parked closer," he says with a faint smirk on his face.

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but finds himself closing his mouth without saying anything else. He stats his car with a snappish twist of his wrist, managing to be sullen about turning on his car. He pulls out quickly and without warning, the force of that turn jerking them both back against their seats.

"Hey!" Isaac says, one hand flying up to grip the oh-shit handle just over the car door. "A little warning next time?"

Stiles shrugs, more amused by his petty revenge than he has any right being. "Sorry, dude," he says, the apology insincere as _hell_. "Next time I'll do better."

Out of the corner of one eye, Stiles actually catches a look of mild disgust on Isaac's face. He fights against the urge to laugh and give away the fact that he's been kind of spying on the other teenager.

"So," Stiles says into the silence. "Did Scott fill you in?"

"Yeah," Isaac mutters. "One of the kids ran away and we've got a ton of pissed off werewolves hunting you guys down." He sits back in his seat in a comfortable-looking sprawl that Stiles is immediately envious of, and crosses his arms behind his head. "Sounds like another normal day in Beacon Hills."

Against his better wishes and his desire to just be all the time ­ _mad_ at Isaac for ( _something_ ), Stiles can't help the little _snerk_ of laughter that escapes his lips. As loathe as Stiles is to actually admit it, Isaac has a point. Even before Scott and Allison started to make Beacon Hills into a veritable safe space for the supernatural, they were getting all of this weird shit.

They've faced demons, witches, and the occasional ninja –

A group of growling werewolves that don't even have the decency to phone first before descending on Beacon Hills like they're dead set on appealing to all the stereotypes about werewolves?

Yeah, no.

That's really not a big deal.

In fact, if Nick hadn't been out and on the run, everyone would simply hole up in various safehouses scattered around Beacon Hills until they just gave up and left town. Or you know… until Braeden got sick and tired of them and put the fear of god into them.

"Where do you think that kid could be?" Isaac says as the first main streets start to show up on their way into town. "Beacon Hills isn't that large. It shouldn't take us that long to find him."

Stiles frowns. "Dude, Scott has us _and_ your two BFFs out looking for the kid. Since we haven't found him yet, I –"

Suddenly, Isaac reaches out and slaps his hand against Stiles' chest.

"Hey – what –"

"The kid's close by, no more than a few miles away," Isaac says, eyes showing a familiar gold hue before they slip shut and Isaac tilts his head back so that he can inhale deeply from the air around them. "Crap. So are a bunch of werewolves and they _don't_ smell like pack."

Stiles' mouth falls open. "Really? How is this any freaking fair?" He glances at Isaac, taking in the tension coiled in every inch of the other teenager's lanky body. "So, are you going to help me find him or am I going to have to chase after you in this jeep?"

Isaac relaxes somewhat, sinking back into the passenger side seat.

"I'll help," he says, "We'll probably need the jeep anyway because knowing our luck, the kid'll probably wind up too shocked to change or maybe someone will break a leg."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay, _that_ doesn't sound negative at all," he drawls. "Now can we get on with finding the kid? You're supposed to be telling me where to go and –"

"Go west," Isaac says, cutting Stiles off with a snarl underlying his voice. When Stiles doesn't immediately turn, his voice sharpens. "Left, Stiles. Turn _left_."

When Stiles hits the gas and turns, just barely making it before the light on their street turns red, Isaac merely grimaces and clutches the inside handle of the door. He doesn't curse, doesn't do anything more than give Stiles a (probably) well-deserved side-eye, even after they're speeding along one of Beacon Hills' seedier streets.

Isaac just squeezes his eyes shut, sticks his head and shoulders out of the car and breathes in deeply. He inhales deeply and then exhales through his mouth as Stiles tries to drive as slow as possible without causing a wreck.

"Did you get anything yet?" Stiles asks after the fifth time someone old enough to be his grandmother peels past his jeep and flips him off in the process. It's only been fifteen minutes and all, but still – "Like I can always call Boyd and Erica if your nose isn't up to sniffing the kid out."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Stiles actually can _see_ when Isaac grits his teeth and growls.

"He's close," Isaac says sharply, "But I don't know –" Isaac nearly flings himself out of the jeep and he jerks in one direction. "There – They're over there, Stiles. I can smell them and I can smell the kid. Stop the car, Stiles. I have to get out."

Stiles thinks about it for approximately thirty seconds before stomping on the breaks hard enough that his mechanic will probably _kill_ him if the werewolves don't first. He glances at Isaac, unsurprised to see the werewolf already out of his car and heading for certain danger.

"I'm coming too," he says.

Stiles is also unsurprised at the utterly dirty look that Isaac shoots him before he disappears down a nearby alley.

So the token human has to wait in the car. It's not all that bad, Stiles reasons. If he thinks about it, it's a good thing that he's out of danger and in his nice, safe jeep. He's the getaway driver and nothing bad ever happens to _them_.

Right?

Isaac is gone for a few minutes. Five at the least and ten at the actual most.  Stiles strains and strains his ears to hear anything beyond the sound of traffic from the streets around them. He thinks he hears someone grunt in pain but then that could be a dog or some other kind of stray.

Stiles' calm is broken quite suddenly when Isaac reappears with Nick shouldering most of his weight as they head towards the jeep in a jerky run. Isaac is bloody and bruised, one side of his face masked with blood and one of his eyes dark and puffy. Nick doesn't seem hurt but then again, Stiles isn't exactly the best judge of those things.

"Start driving," Isaac growls once he's in the back seat of Stiles' jeep. "They're right behind us and it's not going to take them very long to get to their bikes. The damage I did won't stop them."

Holy crap –

Stiles doesn't waste any more time. He pulls back into traffic with screeching sound of rubber on tar, speeding off into a thankfully empty street and taking the first couple of turns that he sees until he's reasonably sure that the werewolves won't be able to catch their scent that easily. When Stiles gets a chance, he yanks his phone out of his pocket and tosses it to Nick.

"Call Scott," he says, "Put it on speaker."

It takes a few rings but finally Scott picks up.

"Tell me you've found him," Scott says, voice echoing tinnily through the jeep.

"We're good," Stiles says. "Well… not so good. Isaac's hurt. He's not like _dying_ or anything, but it's not pretty. We need a place to hole up because the wolves are going to come after us and they're going to take us out if they catch us."

Scott grumbles into the phone. "Do you still have the keys to the safehouse by the lake? There's enough wolfsbane planted on the grounds to mask your scents and the basement is reinforced with a tunnel that leads somewhere else in case things get _really_ bad."

"Yeah," Stiles says, frowning. "We can do that. That's – that's a really good idea."

"Good," Scott replies with relief clear in his voice. "Go there and stay there until we can get everyone together. Call if anything changes."

Stiles snorts. "Of course I will. I'm not a complete tool."

Wisely, no one else in the car says anything to Stiles' comment and so he gets to drive off into the sunset without feeling like everyone is judging him. Well… judging him more than usual at any rate.


	3. Now

Now Stiles has a pretty strong stomach.

After all of the things that he's seen and some of the things that he's eaten, few things actually gross Stiles out. He's seen a lot of gross stuff in his time as Scott's best friend. He's dealt with Scott's weird thing about glue when they were little, watching Derek tear out Peter's throat way back in freshman year, and any number of gross, weird, or just plain _nasty_ things in between now and then.

But this is different.

Most of the time, all of the gross and bad stuff is happening around Stiles. It's not someone right next to him or someone he sort of cares about. Most of the time, the people getting hurt are the people that Stiles would kind of like to hurt himself. And on the rare time that it's his friends and family up against a wall?

Well Stiles is too busy trying to figure out a way to get them to safety to be scared.

But yeah, this is different.

The basement of the safehouse is bigger than the house's first floor. It's a wide windowless room broken up into sections separated by screens on wheels.

The first thing that Stiles does after getting both Nick and Isaac into the room is slam the door shut and lock all four locks – including two final panels of mountain ash that slides into place at the top and bottom of the door and seals them in.

Stiles of course can leave whenever he wants – if you know… there weren't werewolves out for their blood – but Isaac and Nick are safe here. By now, Stiles can actually recite the lecture on mountain ash circles and how werewolves can't cross them.

The creepy alpha and his hench-wolves won't be able to get in to the reinforced basement, but Nick and Isaac can't leave either. Not unless they do it through the tunnel that Stiles will probably have to excavate himself.

A groan from the far side of the room where Nick and Isaac are makes terror spike in Stiles' chest. He turns around expecting the worst, dread tightening his throat as his imagination runs wild.

"Isaac –" For the first time in what feels like forever, Stiles falls quiet. He can't find the words that he wants to say, can't even think about what he _could_ say without it all coming out wrong. Isaac looks like hell. He looks so much worse than he had before and Stiles _really_ doesn't know how he could've missed the signs.

"It's nothing," Isaac says with a growl underlying his voice. Despite how he's half-leaning on Nick and covered in his own blood and bruises, Isaac looks at Stiles with a sharp but wary look on his face. "I'm fine."

Stiles frowns hard.

"Um, no you're not," Stiles says with one eyebrow arching up. He gestures at Isaac's shirt where the fabric is torn up. "I can actually see the holes in your skin, dude. And is that one of your organs –" Stiles leans in and squints at the red ruin of Isaac's abdomen, frowning at the sight of something actually _moving_ underneath the surface of Isaac's skin.

" _Dude_ ," Stiles says on a horrified-sounding exhale. "What the hell –"

Nick steps up. "Yo," he says, way calmer than a kid his age has any right sounding. "Can I put this dude down or what? He's skinny, but he's not light." Nick ignores the way that both Stiles and Isaac glares at him and he snorts, proving Stiles' suspicions that even werewolf teenagers are as annoying as regular ones.

"There should be beds over there behind the curtains," Stiles says absently, eyes still focused on the freaking _gash_ in Isaac's side as if looking away might mean missing something new and gross. "Do you need help getting Isaac on the bed?"

The look that Nick gives Stiles is sharp. The young werewolf rolls his eyes as if the very _idea_ of needing help from a human of all things is ridiculous.

"I'm a werewolf," Nick says slowly, with sarcasm in his tone that hits Stiles right where it hurts. "I could've probably lifted _your_ body weight when I was six. I don't really need your help now." He starts off in the direction of the cots, looking anywhere but at Stiles as he drags Isaac after him.

Stiles rolls his eyes and trots after the kid. He hooks one arm underneath Isaac's shoulders, taking more of the other teenager's weight onto his body. It doesn’t feel less awkward and Stiles is already imagining burning the shirt that he's wearing if not the pants from how much blood and guck smears across it, but still –

"I told you I could do it myself," Nick snaps.

"Yeah," Stiles says, "But you're like _twelve_. I don't care how strong you are. I'm not going to let you drag Isaac's injured butt around until you hit puberty or a growth spurt." He grins, more pleased than he should be at needling a _kid_ , and then settles more of Isaac's weight on his body. "We'll be dead by then, or at least I'll be."

Nick growls and Stiles actually feels the hair on his arms raise.

"What –"

Isaac shakes his head. "Act your age," he snaps and Stiles honestly isn't sure _who_ that's directed at.

Stiles shrugs and decides to just run with it. "Don't look at me," he says in an affronted tone, "The kid started it."

"Please," Isaac says with a weary note in his voice that Stiles thinks has an equal amounts of pain and annoyance in it. "Act your age, Stiles." He shakes his head and then snorts out a bit of laughter that makes him sound more like a goat than a werewolf probably should. "I forgot – that sort of thing doesn't come easy to you, does it?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm all of seventeen," he fires back because the snappish banter is familiar and it takes his mind off the fact that they're probably seconds away from being under attack by weird biker werewolves. "If werewolves are supposed to be so great, maybe _Nick_ here should be the one acting _his_ age."

Eventually, Nick and Stiles get Isaac laid out across the nearest cot.

It… doesn't look good. There's really no way to rest him that doesn't leave Isaac grunting with pain and flexing, claws poking out from the tips of his fingers as the agony he's in forces him to start the shift. On his stomach, he's got bruises all over from heavy fists. On his side, there's that deep gash and the pulpy glimpses of something inside of Isaac's body that Stiles knows he isn't supposed to be able to see.

And on his back –

Stiles squints.

"Is that – a bite mark," he blurts out, his eyes wide. "You're already a wolf. Why would anyone bite you again?" Stiles reaches out to touch the bloody bite mark that he spies high on Isaac's shoulder. That bite isn't the only one on Isaac's flesh but it is the worst one, deep and ragged-edged as blood trickles from the wound.

Isaac grumbles something underneath his breath.

"It was Marcus," Isaac growls, "Marcus bit me. I think he was trying to tear my throat out but he missed." Isaac manages a pain-tinged grin and settles more firmly onto the bed with its lumpy mattress. "He was fast, but I was faster."

"I can see that," Stiles says for lack of anything else to say, "You were only in the alley for a few minutes and you look like _this_. I'd've been dead three times over, man." He says the last bit in a tone of begrudging awe at Isaac's resilience. For the most part, Stiles has thought of Isaac as a bit of a groupie, as if he's dead weight that the pack has been carrying around because Isaac doesn't usually fight. This night -- all of it and not just the parts where Isaac was fighting for his life or theirs -- seems to have proven him wrong. 

Awkwardly, Stiles pats an uninjured area of Isaac's left arm just above the flexing joint of his elbow. He's never been the best at comforting anyone but this is better than doing nothing would be. He steps back when the skin around Isaac's eyes tightens and his mouth twists with pain.

"What can I get you for the pain?" Stiles asks, rambling. "Are those all the injuries you have?"

Isaac opens his mouth to answer and then frowns, brows tightening with pain as he tries to curl up.

Nick holds Isaac flat on the bed, exhibiting both his superhuman strength and how close to annoyance he is. When Isaac stops trying to curl up into a tiny and very bloody ball, Nick scoffs and finally lets him go so that he can look at Stiles.

"He's got something wrong with his leg, the younger teenager points out in a sharp tone. "That's why I was trying to carry him. I think he's been cut with something silver or something with wolfsbane on its edge because his leg just smells _wrong_."

Oh that's not good.

That's really not good.

Stiles feels his frown deepen to the point where he's seriously worried about his face stickling like that and glances down at Isaac's leg. It's not hard to figure out why he missed the blood or Isaac's injury. Thanks to Isaac's black pants, the widening spread of blood is hard to see and unlike almost every other person that he knows, Stiles _doesn't_ have super senses and can't sniff out blood at fifty paces.

"Holy crap," Stiles says, eyes widening as he takes in the severity of Isaac's injury. "Is this -- is it not healing?"

Isaac manages to shake his head even though doing so makes him wince and bite back a curse that forms quite clearly on his lips before he stifles himself. "N-none of it is," he hisses, voice sharp with pain. "Not the bite mark, none of the cuts. I think they had something on their claws because it _hurt_ more than anything and I can feel my body not healing."

"Okay, well -- That's not good," Stiles mutters.

The words earn him a double dose of dirty looks from both Isaac and Nick. Stiles is quick to hold his hands up in surrender. "Hey, don't look at _me_ like that," he says with a bit of snap in his own voice. "I'm trying my best to help but the most I can do is basic first aid the way Scott's mom taught me."

"What are you waiting for then," Isaac growls. "An open invitation? Can you _please_ do what you have to do to do make sure that I don't _die_?" Isaac's fingers flex, claws sliding out slowly enough that Stiles can sense the other teenager's tenuous hold on the change and on his wolf. "I'd like to make it to graduation in one piece."

Stiles swallows a noisy gulp of air. "Okay," he says, "Okay. Um --" Stiles hesitates, glancing at where Nick is standing near Isaac's head. "Can you help him take off his shirt while I get the scissors?"

Nick blinks at Stiles with crimson-tinged eyes. "Scissors," he repeats in a wary tone. "Why?"

"Quit being so suspicious kid," Stiles says with a slight shake of the head. "I'm just going to see if I can turn Isaac's pants into cutoffs so that I can look at the wound _and_ he can keep his pants on. I'm one of the good guys, remember?"

Isaac manages to snort at that and Stiles grins back at him. It's good that Isaac can still laugh, that he can still find some kind of amusement even though he's this close to bleeding out. The rough sound gives Stiles hope -- hope that they'll survive the night and that Isaac will be back to his normally snarky self in no time.

Stiles crosses the basement floor and moves over to where a set of metal lockers line the far wall. He picks one at random and is more than a little pleasantly surprised to find the medical supplies. Stiles barely recognizes more than half of the things there, but he sees Deaton and Melissa McCall's specialty made first-aid kit before he sees the scissors.

The kit is something that has a place of pride in every single safe house and bunker in Beacon Hills. Between Deaton's knowledge about supernatural species' biology and Scott's mom working as a nurse for most of their lives, there's not much that the kit _doesn't_ cover. Which is probably why it weighs about a ton and a half. Great.

Stiles hefts the kit into his arms and then rests it down on one of the beds that has wheels on it. He flips the catches and then raises the lid, hoping _hard_ for this to turn out to be a one stop shop for them. IF everything that they could possibly need is in here, Stiles won't have to keep making trips to the closet and he can work faster.

At least... that's the plan.

"What'd you find," Nick calls out from across the room.

Stiles shushes him on instinct. "Shut _up_ ," he hisses.

"Why?" Nick asks, mouth pursed with a frown. "I thought you said that this place was like reinforced? No one can hear us in here right?"

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes and mutter under his breath. "No one _human_ can hear us," he says, putting emphasis on the word 'human'. "We're dealing with werewolves and an alpha at that. Who knows _what_ they can hear?"

Isaac coughs a bit, a rough, _wet_ sound that makes Stiles flinch. He tries to force himself to sit up but Nick stops him short.

"Don't move," Stiles says sharply, not at all liking the pallor to Isaac's flesh or the way that Isaac's eyes aren't _quite_ focusing. "Whatever you want to say -- whatever you want to do -- it's not that important." Stiles is so sure that he's right, that what Isaac says next completely undoes him.

"It's not just werewolves," Isaac says.

"Excuse me?" Stiles says. "I'm not sure I'm hearing you right but did you say that the crazy alpha has a crew of humans running with him?"

When both Isaac and Nick nod, Stiles feels as if the rug has been pulled from right under his feet. If he wasn't a healthy teenaged boy, he'd probably be half-conscious from fainting. That's how bad it is that they're being hunted by humans _and_ werewolves.

This _so_ not good. While werewolves can't get past mountain ash and wolfsbane is actively poisonous to them, a human doesn't have any of those issues. In fact, a human could walk right up to the door and let themselves in without feeling any of the metaphysical backlash that'd keep a werewolf out.

Stiles moans and then drops his head in his hands.

" _Dude_ ," Stiles says with feeling, "We are _so_ screwed."

Stiles sighs. "Why couldn't either of you have mentioned this earlier?"

"Just call your alpha," Nick snaps.

Stiles wants to get annoyed at the kid's tone but really, they're all freaked out here. Stiles doesn't blame the kid for snapping and snarling, not right now. Stiles goes to reach for his phone and then notes the blood gone tacky over the backs of his fingers.  Isaac's blood. On his skin.

"Oh god," Stiles says. He drops everything and rushes to the sink bolted into the wall, turning the tap on full and nearly knocking over the soap in his haste to squirt some out onto his hands. How many times does Stiles wash his hands? He doesn't know. He loses track, so freaking upset by the fact that his sort-of-friend and classmate's blood is literally _on his hand_ that he can't think about anything else until he's sure that his hands are really clean and both Nick and Isaac's noses wrinkle from the antiseptic soap.

"Are you done?" Isaac asks drily.

Stiles manages a disdainful sniff. "Well if you didn't bleed on everyone you met, this wouldn't be an issue would it?"

Stiles dries his hands quickly in some paper towel that feels more like sandpaper and then grabs for his phone, thumbing through to Scott's contact info. He listens to his phone dial the number and ring on end for what seems like an eternity but probably isn't longer than a minute.

When Scott finally picks up the phone on his end, the connection crackles with static.

"St...iles, wh... are ..o"

Stiles can't understand a thing that Scott is saying. He can barely hear what's being said on his best friend's end of the phone and he doubts that Scott can hear him either.

"Scott, can you hear me?" Stiles can hear panic creep into his voice. He pulls the phone back from his ear and looks down at the screen of his phone. He has like two bars out of five and no data to speak of. Apparently, when they were reinforcing this basement's walls, no one thought that you should be able to make a _phone call_ from it.

Just... great.

"I'll call you back in a minute, buddy," Stiles says and then, feeling terrible as hell, hangs up and Scott and turns back to the first aid kit on the bed. He grabs a few things, mostly bandages, the pair of scissors in the kit, and antiseptic in a brown bottle. There's another glass bottle, one with the label 'Oral Sedative - Lycanthrope' plastered over it in Deaton's neat handwriting and Stiles snatches that one too. Just in case.

Nick has Isaac's shirt off when Stiles returns to their side.

"You should call your alpha again," Nick says in a tone just _this_ shy of judgey. "He could be on his way here or on his way into a trap. You need to warn him."

How a kid that isn't even old enough to be in high school can look at Stiles like this -- like he's the tween --, Stiles doesn't even know. Maybe it's the natural alpha status rearing its head. Maybe that's what Scott would've been like if he'd been born a werewolf instead of bitten. Either way, the tone kind of makes Stiles feel like crap. He dumps everything in his arms on the bed just out of Isaac's reach and then yanks his phone out of his pocket.

Shoving it at Nick, he says, " _You_ do it. I actually have to figure out how to keep my friend from dying tonight and I can't do that and figure out how to play phone tag down here. Text him. Call him. Whatever you want. Communications are _your_ job now, Chekov."

Turning back to Isaac, Stiles frowns.

Isaac looks much worse now. His skin is even paler and there's a color to his wounds that Stiles _really_ doesn't like seeing. Where every other part of him is paling, the wounds are gaining color -- red around the bite marks and a bluish sort of hue around the gash in his side and stomach.

Honestly, Stiles _really_ doesn't want to see what Isaac's leg looks like, but he reaches for the scissors. They're more like shears than anything Stiles has at home and he kind of feels like he needs to ask Deaton and Mrs. McCall what they're supposed to be for. Whatever their original use, the scissors cut through Isaac's pants like a hot knife through butter and the leg of his pants falls away within moments.

Seeing the raw ruin of Isaac's leg makes bile and vomit bubble up in the back of Stiles' throat. His leg has been laid open by something that somehow managed not to destroy the back leg of his pants.

This isn't normal. Not the wound. Not the persistence of the werewolves and their human helpers. None of this is normal. Usually, when an alpha comes to town and has one hell of a hard time hunting down deserters from their pack, they usually give up. They're usually not organized like this or equipped with what Stiles is starting to suspect is magic or at least some kind of enchanted weapon.

"Hey, Nick," Stiles calls out as he stares at the wound on Isaac's leg that looks like it's already starting to fester. "What'd you said his leg smelled like again?"

Nick's nose wrinkles. "I didn't say but I smell something sour," he says with a shrug. "Rotting almost. I don't know what it came from but I know it can't be anything good." He glances down at Stiles' phone in his hand and frowns. "I smelled the same smell on one of the humans too."

Why couldn't anyone have said anything earlier?

This isn't the sort of thing that Stiles can handle on his own. He's a high school student, that's all. He can drive and he can cook, but that's about _it_ as far as talents go. This isn't in his skill set at _all_ and because of it -- because he's so freaking _useless_ \-- Isaac is going to die.

Nick growls. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself and for your friend and _do_ something about it," he snarls, the redness in his eyes flashing bright. "Do whatever you want but if you're going to stand around here smelling _sad_ , you might as well go outside and let the wolves kill you because this isn't helping either."

"You know, you're kind of a jerk, kid." Despite his words, Stiles feels strengthened by that impromptu and mean pep talk. Somehow, the kid found exactly what Stiles needed to hear.

Nick shrugs.

"As long as you get Isaac back in fighting shape, I don't care what I have to say."

*

After all of his panic, getting Isaac cleaned up and seeing to his wounds isn't as horrifying as Stiles expected. Sure, the poison part isn't fun and Stiles has a hard time figuring out how he's going to deal with that, but once he has most of the blood wiped off and bandages laid out over the smaller cuts, things sort of start to feel a bit more manageable.

Stiles glances over at where Nick is sitting on one of the cots, Stiles' phone in his hand. "Did you reach Scott yet?"

Nick shakes his head. "I texted him, but nothing's coming through on his end."

Again... Great.

It's like the universe is actively _trying_ to get them killed, Stiles thinks. He smooths out the last little bandage over a cut on Isaac's arm and then turns his attention to the big gash on his side.

"Well I have nothing that even _resembles_ medical training so I'm going to need a little bit of help getting this done," Stiles says. "I need you to come and hold Isaac down so I can clean out the gash and figure out how to close it up."

"I can help with that," Nick pipes up.

Stiles feels one of his eyebrows lift. "Really?"

Nick shrugs and then offers Stiles a wan smile. "My dad taught me how to stitch wounds when I was little," he says. "I can help, I promise."

For once, Stiles doesn't say the first thing on his mind about how Nick is still a kid. He looks at Nick's face and then down at where Isaac's insides are almost on the outside. Despite the fact that they're barely frenemies, Stiles doesn't actually _want_ anything bad to happen to Isaac. He wants this to end with Isaac living to snark again, not with them attending a funeral.

Stiles' breath blows out of his mouth in a heavy sigh. "Okay," he says. "Go for it. I'll clean and then you'll stitch." Glancing down at Isaac's face, he forces a positive note into his voice. "Y'hear that, buddy? Soon you'll be able to go out and get your butt kicked by even more werewolves so just -- just hold on."

"And _I'm_ supposed to be bad at pep talks?"

"Shut up, Nick," Stiles mutters but his heart isn't even in it.

Together, they work fast. Whatever is in Deaton's antiseptic, it works like a charm and burns like hell. Nick has to _work_ to keep Isaac from flinging himself off of the mattress as he growls, but by the time that Stiles finishes using the antiseptic, Isaac's skin looks better and he's healing. It's slow going, but it really is better than nothing. Stiles leans in, peering hard at Isaac's skin. If he squints, it looks as if Isaac's skin is healing right before his eyes, something not out of left field for werewolves.

"Can you handle it from here?"

Nick nods and then smiles a grim grin. "I've been doing this for years," he says, "I think I can handle it." He goes to work with a sterilized needle and dissolvable thread from the first aid kit, sewing at speed until Isaac's skin is stitched up and the wound is closed, stitches standing out stark against Isaac's paleness. All in all, it takes ten minutes. Fifteen tops.

Stiles is impressed. "And you said your dad taught you how to do this," Stiles asks. "Sweet. My dad only taught me how to drive, not to properly do medical procedures."

Isaac coughs out a rusty-sounding laugh.

"I don't think he taught you _that_ well," Isaac mumbles. "Maybe he should've taught you how to do the medical stuff instead."

Stiles sniffs loudly. "Sure," he says, adopting a tone of mock hurt, "Be that way. It's not like my awesome driving skills didn't save your bacon tonight or anything like that..." He drops the act and then smiles, honestly pleased with Isaac coming back to himself enough to joke with him. "Now if you think you can stand it, I'm going to look at your leg."

Isaac grimaces, but then nods his head. "I can do it," he says through clenched teeth. "I can handle the pain if it means that I won't die tonight."

Stiles can't help himself or his response. He grins widely and then says, "Well, not from blood poisoning at least. We still have a ton of people on our tail and no way to get in touch with the rest of our pack. You'll probably die tonight but at least it won't be from that."

"Gee, thanks," Isaac drawls. "Somehow, you always know just what _not_ to say."

Stiles beams. "I do try my best."

"If you two are finished flirting, can we _please_ get back to work before Isaac bleeds out?" Nick's voice holds an edge to it but Stiles doesn't sense any of the fear that'd been in his voice for much of their time together. Now he just sounds annoyed, aggravated and impatient like most people his age. "Don't forget that we still don't know what that poison is or what it'll do to him."

Stiles wrinkles his nose at Nick but decides _not_ to voice the thoughts at the forefront of his mind. Namely, that the kid is pretty cute when he's worrying about someone else. He doesn't ruffle Nick's close-cropped curls, that would ruin the point of putting gloves on in the first place and would get blood in Nick's hair besides. Nevertheless, he's thinking about it. He's so thinking about it.

"Hurry _up_ ," Nick and Isaac say this time.

Stiles kind of blanks. Staring down at the mess of Isaac's leg and the black veins radiating from the wound, he forgets everything. Even the basic first aid that Scott's mom had all but drilled into them as little kids because this isn't that kind of first aid. This isn't practicing stitches on fruit or clothes or bandaging Scott's stuffed animals. This is Scott's friend and his... well, his classmate, and if he messes up on this, Isaac is a dead wolf.

"Well?"

"I'm _thinking_ ," Stiles snaps. And then it's as if a lightbulb clicks on in his head. "Wait -- I think I know how to do this. Nick, go look for a poultice in that big locker. Deaton made a bunch of cure-alls from his wacky Druid knowhow and they're literally magic." He feels more than sees the distrusting look on Nick's face and then handwaves it away. "Don't look at me like that. Trust me for a change. I know what I'm talking about."

Nick scoffs softly. "Yeah, sure," he mutters. "It's not like you're the one that's got us trapped underground and probably surrounded by werewolves -- Oh wait..."

Stiles rolls his eyes and then gestures at the lockers with his left elbow. "The whole time you're here complaining, you could be looking for those poultices. You said it yourself, we need Isaac back to fighting shape if we want to have any hope of making it through the night and if that can't do it, nothing can."

With Stiles' words hanging in the air, Nick runs over to the locker and then quickly comes back with an armful of faintly stinky poultices.

"That should hold you for now," Stiles says as he lays the poultices out on Isaac's leg and on the bite on his back. "Once we get out of here, Deaton'll look you over and get you back on your feet for good."

Isaac nods once to show that he understands. "What are we going to do now?"

Stiles points at Isaac and at Nick. "You two are going to rest," he says, " _I'm_ going to see if I can find someplace in this room that _isn't_ a dead spot so I can call Scott and let him know what's going on."

*

After almost an hour of trying, Stiles gets enough of a signal on his phone that he can call Scott. Sure, he's wedged on top of a bookcase in a dusty corner, but when Scott answers, his voice comes through loud and clear.

"Stiles," Scott all but _shouts_ in Stiles' ear. "I've been trying to reach you for _ages_. Tell me you're all right! Derek, Braeden, Allison, and I are on our way out to that safehouse now. Let me know if we're going to have to break some laws to get there in time."

Stiles snickers at Scott's intensity, but then sobers. "We'll be fine as long as you bring Deaton along with you to help. Isaac's hurt bad and he's not healing as well as he should," Stiles says in a rapid burst of words that few people aside from Scott are capable from deciphering. "And you need to be careful. Nick and Isaac said that the alpha Marcus had some strange-smelling humans in his pack. One of them used some kind of magic on Isaac's leg and he's laying here with one of Deaton's poultices on his skin."'

Scott exhales loudly. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says. "Stay safe."

"We will," Stiles assures him. "I'll --" Stiles pauses when he hears noise coming from upstairs. "Crap -- hold on Scott, I think someone's in the house with us."

It's like _the_ biggest cliché in terms of horror movies and it's the closest that Stiles has come to feeling like the unwilling participant in a horror movie in at least a couple of months. The ceiling of the room is reinforced as well, silver, concrete, and mountain ash in layers all over. They've tested it out before and only something dedicated and determined to kill would even think about trying to get in at them.

"Stiles --"

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Stiles says quickly. "They can't get in the safe room even if they burn the place down and since I'm pretty sure Marcus wants Nick _alive_ , we should be able to avoid them doing that." He huffs out a sigh. "I know you hate doing it, but please consider breaking the law for me and let Braeden risk getting a few speeding tickets."

He's not expecting Scott to agree or to give in.

Stiles does this -- constantly underestimate how good and giving Scott is -- until something happens and Scott proves that he's really earned the alpha status in their makeshift pack. At Scott's immediate agreement, Stiles slumps against the wall behind him and sighs, nearly unseating himself from his perilous perch. "Thank you so much, Scott."

"Don't thank me yet," Scott says, "Wait for me to actually save your butt this time."

Stiles mutters something, he doesn't remember what, and then hangs up. When he turns back to the far side of the room where Isaac and Nick are stretched out across two separate beds in the infirmary section of the safe room, he's not at all surprised to see both of them staring at him.

"So um... You heard that, didn't you?"

Nick rolls his eyes. " _Hello_ , werewolf here. I can hear everything up to and including Marcus's man on the floor above us stomping around. He's probably looking for the way in."

"Well he's not going to find it," Stiles says. "When we remodeled the house, we made sure that no one could find it. The house smells like all of us and it's just layered enough to make sure that the scent trail is too confusing to pick up." Stiles isn't speaking from experience on this one, since he doesn't smell half as well as either of the two werewolves in the room with him, but from memorizing Derek's lectures after the remodeling was finished. By the end of the lectures, Stiles could talk anyone's ear off about scent trails and setting them as a distraction, even a werewolf.

Isaac grumbles to himself and then tries to roll over onto his back. "We need to move closer to the tunnel," Isaac says in a voice that's still too-shaky with pain. "And you, Stiles, need to make sure it's clear enough for us to get through. If they _do_ make it to the door, then we'll need an escape route."

"Look at you, being all bossy and all that," Stiles says, grinning even harder at the narrow-eyed glare that his words earn him. "You think you can make it that far?"

The words that Isaac says next are definitely _far_ from complimentary, but Stiles starts laughing. Here they are possible minutes away from a gory death and Isaac is cursing at him. He shakes his head and then steps forward, very ready to help Isaac off the stiff hospital bed and into one of the beanbag chairs that he and Scott fought to get placed in this house.

Helping Isaac walk this time is far different from doing it when Isaac was first helped into the safe house. Now, he can hold more of his own weight and he can walk a little bit on the floor. It's not Stiles and Nick holding up Isaac's lanky body and hoping that they don't fall over from the effort.

"You werewolves sure heal fast when you put your minds to it," Stiles says with a little bit of awe in his voice. "It's only been a few hours and you're already hobbling around. Good for you!"

Isaac shakes his head. "It's not my healing," Isaac says instead of accepting Stiles' compliment. "I'm a beta. We don't heal that fast most of the time. Deaton's poultices are what helped. I could feel something in them that was helping to speed the healing along." He ducks his head and then chuckles. "After all the time I've spent making faces at Scott for using those nasty smelling things and they turn out to save me from dying."

"Didn't you know that your pack's emissary could do that type of magic?" Nick asks, peering at Stiles and Isaac from his own beanbag chair. "Marcus's pack didn't have much magic but our emissary was skilled at healing. To be a part of the pack, he'd have to be."

Stiles thinks about shrugging but then pauses mid-motion. "Scott'd know more about this sort of thing than I would," he says casually. "He still works with Deaton in the animal hospital so he's always around to find out new things about magic. Me? I'm busy just trying not to fail trig. I don't have time for magic unless it's trying to kill me."

With that, Stiles tips Isaac into the beanbag chair as gently as he possibly can and tries to ignore the way that Isaac's grunt of pain makes his own chest hurt.

"Stay here." Stiles says. "I'm going to check out the tunnel and see about getting it ready just in case."

Draped across his beanbag and visibly exhausted, Isaac waves Stiles away. "You go do that," he murmurs, "But hurry up. I don't hear any noise from upstairs anymore and that _can't_ be good."

Stiles can't move fast enough and he goes to the trap door in the floor nearby that leads to the tunnels. The tunnels are a work of art, hand designed by Derek last summer and carved out in the few months after that. They go all over Beacon Hills, cutting through the mountains and linking up with some of the safe houses across town. And the one underneath this house goes to one of Derek's super-fortified ones. If they have to leave this safe house, they'll be leaving it for someplace better and safer. It's the only thing that keeps Stiles from flat out _panicking_ as he gets the trap door up and chances a quick peek inside the darkened tunnel.

After a few seconds, the glowstrips embedded on the walls of the tunnel flicker on, casting a faint light in the dark tunnel. Sure, it's not nearly enough light for a human like Stiles to see by, but to the werewolves and other supernaturals that he hangs out with, the path has to be as clear as day.

Stiles squints into the dimness. When nothing immediately jumps out at him, Stiles relaxes. At the very least, there's nothing down here that's waiting to jump out at him and rip his face off. Sadly, that's a little bit better than what's waiting for them upstairs.

"It's a little musty, but it's clear," Stiles calls out over his shoulder. "We can get out of here if we need to. That's good news." He gets back up on his feet and dusts the knees of his jeans off even though they're not even close to looking dirty. "And this tunnel has a door that locks from the inside so even if someone gets in here, they won't be able to follow us."

Nick's nose wrinkles with a frown. "Didn't you say that they wouldn't be able to find us in here?"

Stiles shrugs. "Okay, so maybe I was wrong about how sturdy this place was," he admits. Then Stiles shakes his head and points his index finger at the two werewolves in front of him. "Maybe you two should've mentioned the humans working with the werewolf _before_ we wound up trapped in here."

The twin looks of disgust that Stiles gets from both Isaac and Nick makes him choke on a burst of utterly inappropriate laughter.

"You didn't ask," Nick says in a deadpan tone.

Before Stiles can truly get into a proper fight with the tween in front of him, the room shudders as a loud thud echoes through the reinforced basement. The center of that violent movement is the door and Stiles freezes, caught by the fact that this isn't the usual procedure. Normally, they're up against werewolves or banshees or the occasional poltergeist. They're up against the supernatural and there are ways to keep them from killing everyone.

With humans in the alpha's pack working alongside him, the door that'd been their main safe barrier becomes something that might lead to their downfall.

"Get in the tunnel," Stiles says, his voice sharp with stress.

"What – No!" Isaac shouts down Stiles' words before Nick can. When Stiles turns his head, Isaac is half-standing, half-clinging to Nick's much shorter frame. "You're human."

Stiles snorts, "And you're hurt."

"I'd still last longer than you in a fight," Isaac points out. Then he jabs his thumb at Nick. "And so would the twelve year old." Ignoring the way that Nick growls at him, Isaac continues talking as if he never heard any of it. "If you don't want to run away, that's one thing, but I'm not letting you die down here."

The door to the reinforced room shudders again.

"So what," Stiles says, "You want me to die aboveground?"

Nick growls, the sound loud enough to make the hair on the back of Stiles' neck stand up. The kid looks between Stiles and Isaac, eyes flashing red with his annoyance. "Do you know that I want?"

" _What_?" Stiles and Isaac snap in unison.

"To not die at all," Nick snarls. "So can we _please_ get in the tunnel and get out of here?" He shakes Isaac a little for emphasis. "You can get yourselves killed once we're outside but until then -- I'm getting in the tunnel."

 


	4. Now and Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! My largest work of Teen Wolf fan fiction and it's pretty darn good! I loved the chance to put my spin on the characters and really, writing Stiles to this level has really changed the way that I think of him. I see a lot more potential in him as a character because I had to put myself in his shoes as a human in the midst of the supernatural and I liked that. 
> 
> Thank you very much tristen84 for making this all possible and thank you so much for being patient with me as I wrote WAY more than you expected and took a frightfully long time to do so!

_Now_

Stiles isn't claustrophobic.

Not really.

However, there's something about the tunnel stretching between safehouses that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he follows behind Isaac and Nick. With the tunnel door locked behind them, there's no way that anyone should be able to come down after them, but Stiles can't stop glancing back.

Every step that they take away from the safehouse should make Stiles feel safer. It doesn't. The faster they run and the farther they get, the more that Stiles' heart thuds against his chest. He's not like Nick and Isaac, he can't tell if they're being followed and he can't tell if someone has broken the seal of the lock. All he can do is assume and worry and –

"We're almost there," Isaac says, his voice barely loud enough for Stiles to hear. He's braced on the wall, still shaky despite everything that they've gone through to heal him and every step is a struggle. "I can smell the air. We should be close to one of the exits now."

Stiles frowns. "We're not going to the other safehouse?"

"I think we should help Scott," Isaac says, "We can circle around the house and keep them busy until Scott and the others get here."

"Have you even thought this through?" Stiles barks. "How long do you think we'll survive? You're hurt, I'm human, and _he's_ twelve! This isn't a game, Isaac. If we go out there, we're going to _die_."

Isaac growls and the sound rumbles through the air. "We're not going to die."

"We might," Nick points out. "Stiles _does_ have a point."

Great. The only time that Nick agrees with Stiles and it's a precursor to their untimely deaths. Stiles really has to get better at this. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and directs a sullen but sharp glare at Isaac.

"I didn't do all that work trying to save your life only to have you run out and get killed," Stiles says, trying one last time to get through to Isaac's ridiculously thick skull. "If we go out there now before we even know how far away Scott is or where Nick's jerkwad of an alpha is, we're going to get killed."

Stiles starts pacing, gesturing wildly with his hands as Nick and Isaac stare at him. "We don't even have weapons."

The snorting sound of Isaac's laughter raises Stiles' hackles.

"What's so funny," Stiles demands to know.

Shrugging, Isaac responds. "Derek _and_ Braeden designed these tunnels. Do you really think that she'd let him get away without putting a weapons cache somewhere in the tunnels? She's human too, Stiles: she's not going to rely on claws any more than you would."

Eh.

Isaac makes a good point. No matter how much Scott has tried to get her to see things his way, Braeden has always kept a gun (or three) around. Where Scott doesn't kill, Braeden sees it as one of the only ways to solve a problem permanently. So _of course_ she'd make Derek put in hidey-holes for different weapons just in case they get trapped down in the tunnels.

"Do you know where the nearest one is?" Stiles asks Isaac once his pacing brings him closer to the other teenager. "If we can find something powerful, but nonlethal then maybe – just maybe – we'll be able to hold our own."

"I can smell a faint trace of gunpowder and since we're this deep underground, it has to be from one of the caches," Isaac says. He glances at Nick. "Think you can help me find it fast?"

The two of them share a look and then they're loping off in the only direction they can, moving closer and closer to where the tunnel is supposed to branch off. Nick is smaller and faster than Isaac with his bruises and that injured leg, but they both manage to outpace Stiles in a heartbeat.

Stiles isn't bothered though. He's physically slower than they are, but that just means that he'll have more time to think as he catches up. Stiles' mind is already racing through the options as he thinks. Braedon prefers heavy artillery, loaded up for werebear with silver and wolfsbane bullets. She doesn't like anything _but_ lethal. But she usually takes Scott's needs into consideration too so there should be a little something for everyone including –

"Tranquilizer guns," Stiles says to himself as a plan starts to unfurl in his head. "We can use tranquilizer guns." He starts to speed up then, grinning as his plan solidifies. Maybe they won't die tonight.

*

By the time that Stiles catches up with Isaac and Nick, the two werewolves already have the weapons cache cracked. More like a trunk than the locker that Stiles'd been expecting, the contents of the cache lay strewn across the tunnel floor in a haphazard pile and immediately, Stiles picks out the tranquilizer guns resting on top of one of Allison's spare bows.

" _That_ 's what you're going with?" Nick's voice probably couldn't hold any more disbelief if he _tried_. The kid crouches down besides Stiles, fingers going to one of Kira's spare swords before he pauses just shy of touching the hilt. "Out of everything here, you go with the tranq guns?"

Stiles is _so_ not loving that tone.

"I know what I'm doing," Stiles bites out through clenched teeth.

And he does.

Even though Braeden hadn't given all of them lessons on how to use all of her guns, Stiles' dad is the Sheriff. Some things, some lessons, had to be learned. Stiles may not be the best shot out there but he's good enough to nail the broad side of a werewolf with a couple of tranq darts and that's all that matters.

Nick doesn't seem impressed. The teenager sighs and then, with a roll of his eyes, he gets back to his feet and then moves away. "Sure you do."

"Was I this big of a pain in the ass about the weapons thing when we started this?" Stiles asks Isaac, his tone almost conversational as he pockets a couple of handfuls of darts.

Stiles tosses one of the tranquilizer guns at Isaac, feeling gratified when Isaac snatches it out of the air and then crouches down to take a few darts himself. Isaac is one of the more bloodthirsty members of their pack, something that Stiles has appreciated in the past when feeling outnumbered in discussions, but here and now, him taking the darts instead of looking for bullets or a knife makes Stiles grin. They're both learning, changing thanks to Scott and his refusal to give up on _anyone_.

Isaac doesn't answer Stiles' question at first, too focused on loading the darts into the gun.

The liquid in the darts, a mix of chemicals and magical ingredients cobbled together by Deaton and Scott, can take down anything from a skinwalker to a large werewolf. One misstep, one slip of his hand, and Isaac'll end up unconscious for the rest of the night. While that'd be great for healing, it wouldn't end so well for Stiles and Nick.

So Stiles doesn't press, doesn't even open mouth to do more than breathe as Nick kicks weapons around with all of the sullenness that only a tween can possess.

Eventually though --

"You were worse," Isaac says. He's smiling though, teeth bared enough that Stiles can see the way that his canine teeth are faintly elongated. "But somehow, you never managed to get us killed."

Isaac turns to Nick.

"You don't need a weapon though -- once we get aboveground, you can change and defend yourself that way." Isaac pauses again. When he starts talking again a heartbeat later, there's doubt in his voice that at once makes Nick start bouncing on the balls of his feet. "That won't be a problem will it?"

Even Stiles gets that Isaac is doing this on purpose.

Distracting Nick, making him focus more on the fight to come than on the fact that they're not even going to give him a weapon to carry is all part of the plan. Or at least it is now. Stiles nods and then chimes in as helpful as he can be.

"How long does it take you to change?" Stiles asks as he stands up. Without waiting for Nick to answer, he barrels on. "If you have a weapon in your hands, you're going to have to put it down long enough to change and I'm not sure that Isaac and I can have your back for that long. It's better if you change before we get into the fighting. It'd be easier, and safer --"

Nick growls. "For who?"

"For you of course," Stiles says. "You're probably faster in wolf form and smaller. If anything happens to us, you can make it back to Scott and the rest of the pack. You'll be safe there." He watches Nick's mouth open wide as if the kid's about to shout his ear off and then pushes on. "If you're not going to listen to me, then you can just stay down here. We're trying to get you to your parents in one piece and we can't do that if you're going to jump into something you're not prepared for."

Stiles sees a lot of himself in Nick. He does. The kid's tiny, confident, and he seems willing to butt heads with anyone. But he's still a kid and Stiles has years of experience in what makes a kid like that tick. That's why he slings his left arm around Nick's narrow shoulders and pulls him into an awkward almost-hug.

"I know that you can take care of yourself and I know that you could break me in half without even trying, but I'm responsible for your safety" Stiles says, waving a hand between him and Isaac. "We're responsible for getting you back to your family safe and sound so trust us to have your back. Okay?"

Nick doesn't seem convinced. "Isaac's hurt."

Isaac snorts.

"I'm healing," he says. "The poultices helped more than I thought they would. I can hold on long enough for Deaton to look me over and that should be more than enough time."

Patting the pocket where he has more of the tranquilizer darts secreted, Isaac grins widely enough that Stiles actually feels an instinctive trickle of fear spark up his spine at the wolfishness of that expression. "Even if I can't fight as well as I usually can, I can take out as many people as possible and Stiles is a good shot. We'll protect you."

Stiles doesn't pump his fist or anything like that. He settles for grinning back at Isaac.

"You're in good hands, kid," he says. "Now let's go get our butts handed to us!"

*

The exit hatch for the tunnel lets them out a couple hundred yards away from the house, the hatch door hidden by a patch of wolfsbane that does nothing to humans but gives many other kinds of supernatural beings a nasty rash on their skin.

They're downwind of the safehouse and hidden by trees which means that Nick and Isaac's senses are probably in overdrive trying to catalogue the scent of the pack on their tails. Stiles' nose isn't even a tenth as good as theirs, but there's one scent in the air that he doesn't need supersenses to pick up. There's smoke in the air, heavy and cloying in a way that makes Stiles feel like coughing and clutching his throat.

"I think the house is on fire," Nick points out a little unhelpfully as Stiles can already see the orange-red flames licking at the outside of the safe house and the patch of wolfsbane ringing it.

"I can see that," Stiles snarks under his breath, earning an almost playful cuff from Isaac. He shakes his head and then takes a single step forward, squinting as if that'll help him see better. The alpha and his pack are upwind and the air is already so full of smoke that their senses must be muddled. "Why would they try to burn the house down with us in it? I thought they wanted you alive?"

Stiles turns to Nick to get the kid's opinion but as he turns, he notices a man stealing up behind them. It has to be one of the bikers that rode in with Marcus. Tall and rangy with stringy brown hair and pale eyes that gleam under the moonlight, there's something about the man that Stiles dislikes on instinct.

Stiles reaches out and shoves Nick down to the ground in the same moment that he holds up his tranquilizer gun and shoots one dart at the other man's neck. Stiles doesn't miss, and the dart hits home with a quiet whisper of motion. Within seconds, the man in front of them topples to the ground and his eyes slide shut.

"Are you sure that they want you alive, kid?" Isaac murmurs, glancing down at the unconscious man only a few feet away from him. "Because that's one of the men that attacked me and I don't think that they send him to do anything that doesn't end in death."

Nick shivers. "I don't -- I don't know."

Stiles feels a stab of sympathy for Nick. "Don't worry," he says in as firm an order as he feels comfortable delivering. "We'll find out what's going on. All you have to do is shift and get ready to run."

*

"Think of it like we're playing a game of paintball," Stiles whispers, shifting close to Isaac's side amidst the trees. The roar of the burning safehouse creaking and crumbling in front of them should cover anything that they say to one another but it also should cover whatever sounds Nick makes as he shifts form.

Isaac rolls his eyes. Again.

By now, Stiles is used to that. After spending hours with Isaac, the most time that they've spent alone together in two years, he's sort of inured to the way that Isaac responds to everything with sarcasm in his voice or in his body language.

Instead of rolling his own eyes or delivering a smart remark of his own, Stiles grins.

"You know it's true," he says. "It's _just_ like we're playing a game."

Isaac doesn't bite.

"Except that we're up against half a pack of werewolves and all we've got are two tranquilizer gun and a teenage werewolf." Isaac pauses, directing a heavily measuring look in Stiles' direction. "I worry about you sometimes."

"That's so sweet of you," Stiles says in a tone practically dripping with fake sugary sweetness. It's the sort of tone calculated to annoy someone and when Isaac glowers at him and shoves gently at his shoulder, Stiles only smiles harder. "Now how are we going to handle this?"

Nick pads forward, a lean black-furred shape in the darkness. He nudges Stiles' arm with the cool tip of his nose and then growls, baring sharp white teeth. Now this isn't the first werewolf that Stiles has seen fully transformed. Not even close. However, there's something uncomfortable about reconciling Nick's witty teenaged self with the snarling wolf just waiting for chaos to start.

"And no, Nick," Stiles says to the wolf at his elbow. "We're not going to kill them. We're not going to kill anyone."

Nick's only response is a high-pitched whine that cuts off abruptly.

"I think we should put them on the defense," Isaac says, his voice low. "Take the humans out first and leave the werewolves scrambling. Marcus has them as a secret weapon, I think. If he can't use them against us or against Scott, then his wolves will probably panic."

Stiles blinks at Isaac. "That's – that's actually a good plan."

Isaac shrugs. "I listen when Braeden talks, that's all."

And that's the scary kind of awesome considering that Braeden is one of the few people in the world that Stiles would _never_ talk back to. It's not that she's frightening or that Stiles thinks that she'd kill him for it, but that he's seen what happens when people underestimate Braeden. They look at her face and at her scars and assume one thing, but it's almost always the _wrong_ thing.

And they almost always wind up paying for it.

Stiles thinks about letting the subject slide but then pauses.

"I always like a good plan," he says as if Isaac wouldn't know that by now. "So what you do want to do?"

Isaac freezes, eyes widening slightly. "You're – you're serious?"

"Would I waste your time like that? Really?"

The look that Isaac sends Stiles' way is scalding and Isaac doesn't even need to open his mouth for Stiles to get the message. After a moment of tense silence, Isaac finally deigns to speak.

"We're going to split up," Isaac says, ignoring the way that his words earn him a double take from both Stiles _and_ Nick. "You and Nick are going to take the west side and I'm going to take the east." At the way that Stiles stares at him, wide-eyed, Isaac clarifies. "You two'll go right and I'll head left."

Stiles shakes his head. "Dude, I know which way west is," he says probably louder than he should with werewolves so very close to them. "But haven't you seen like _any_ horror movies? Or an episode of Scooby-Doo? Splitting up is the _worst_ idea in the book."

Unruffled, Isaac shakes his head. "That's why _you're_ going with Nick. You can protect each other."

"Oh yeah," Stiles snaps, "Because that makes _so_ much sense, right? You're still injured."

"Yeah, but I'm still stronger and faster than you are," Isaac says with a bite of heat to his voice as he hisses the words. "Trust me. If you two head one way and I go the other, we can hold them off for a few minutes longer than we could standing together."

Stiles frowns but bites his tongue until he feels as if he can say something other than a sharply worded comment. "But they could kill us easier if we're split up."

Shrugging, Isaac says, "Yeah, but we have surprise on our side and we only have to take out a few of them."

He _would_ see it that way, Stiles thinks. But he's not wrong.

Stiles hates to admit it (not because it's Isaac – their brush with death still at the front of his mind – but because Stiles is used to being _right_ ), but Isaac's plan is as good as anything he would've come up with. Honestly, it's better. Much better. All Stiles'd been planning was a group ambush and while it could've worked, this is better.

He says as much as he scrambles to his feet. "Be safe," he says after another pause, feeling a bit like a heel for it once the words are already out of his mouth.

But Isaac merely nods his head and salutes him with the tranquilizer gun.

"You too."

*

One day, it's going to stop being weird that this is Stiles' life.

Sneaking through grass.

Dodging werewolves.

Pulling a 'Rambo' on his way to take down some more werewolves.

It's so surreal. Sure, Stiles has been dealing with this sort of thing since the summer before sophomore year, but sometimes it's difficult to deal with. Sometimes – like now – when he's an impossible situation about to do an impossible thing, he can't stop thinking about how his life isn't anything like he would've expected back in middle school.

Beside him, Nick stops crawling. He nudges Stiles once in the shoulder with his nose and then flicks his left ear. It's a deliberate signal but one that takes Stiles a moment to get. He moves into a crouch, clutching the tranquilizer gun like a lifeline, and then aims at the shadowy figure that he can see off to their left in front of the burning safehouse.

From this far away, Stiles can't tell if the person is a human or a werewolf. He can't tell anything about them aside from the fact that they're definitely _not_ on his side. Stiles looks through the sight on the tranquilizer gun, centering the man in the crosshairs before he fires.

And misses.

Of course he misses.

Because this is Stiles' life and he's been cursed with bad luck.

The man turns his head and the firelight glints golden in his eyes as he tilts his head back and inhales deeply through his nostrils.

A werewolf.

He's a werewolf.

Great.

The werewolf with those golden eyes starts loping towards them. It's smoky enough from the roaring fire burning down hundreds of thousands of Hale dollars that he can't see or smell Nick, but he's still heading towards them. Without looking away from those eyes, Stiles slots another tranquilizer dart into the gun and tries again. He inhales slowly, staring down the barrel of the gun and trying to pretend that it still feels like a game.

He fails.

Well… At lulling himself into a false calm.

As the werewolf comes closer, not quite running now but at a pace that quickly sees him clearing the grounds, Stiles aims at the curve of one arm and then fires. This time, Stiles' aim is true. He sees the dart sink into the werewolf's flesh instead of pinging off into the grass. It starts working immediately, and before the werewolf can get within a dozen feet of them, he's out cold in the grass.

Stiles immediately looks around to high-five Nick, only realizing belatedly that Nick doesn't exactly have hands. He settles instead for resting one hand on the top of Nick's head and daring to pat him once before pulling away. Looking down at Nick with a sharp, almost feral smile on his face, Stiles can't help himself.

"Let's go see if we can take out more of them than Isaac can," Stiles whispers. "Bragging rights are no joke."

Nick only utters a huffing sound that sounds like disgust before dropping back down and crawling away.

Fine.

Stiles can take a hint.

*

Stiles takes out one more guy before his luck runs out. They're coming up close to the house when Stiles hears Nick whine. Before Stiles can turn to see what's wrong, a strong hand closes around the back of his neck, lifting him to his feet and then squeezing hard until Stiles swears that he's going to black out.

"Look what we have here," the man – no, werewolf – says as if he's decided to embody every single werewolf stereotype in a single encounter. By the time that he turns Stiles around, Stiles is panting for breath and his vision is hazy around the edges. The werewolf in front of them inhales once, deeply, and then smiles wide enough that his very sharp teeth are visible. "A snack."

Stiles doesn't flinch.

He can't do anything about the pounding of his heart but he can do something about his body's other reactions. So he doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. What he does do is smile.

"You really wouldn't want to eat me," Stiles says confidently. "I'm stringy and tough and the last person who tried to eat me, _really_ didn't enjoy the experience." That would have been the vampire from Toronto that'd gone on and on about Stiles' high cholesterol before Braeden staked him. Sure, it ended in a much needed dietary change on Stiles' part but still – the point stands that Stiles _isn't_ tasty.

The werewolf holding Stiles off of the ground glowers for a bit.

"What –"

"You heard me," Stiles says, going against his self-preservation instincts and his drive to survive to another day just so that maybe Nick will have the chance to escape. "You're not going to enjoy eating me so don't even bother. It's not worth it and I still have a long life to live."

Somehow, the werewolf isn't amused.

"Why you little –"

Before Stiles can find out what insult he's going to get this time, a gunshot blast through the night. It's close. Too close. For once though, that's a good thing because the werewolf immediately drops Stiles to the ground in favor of clutching his shoulder and wailing – a sound that Stiles has never heard come out of anyone that big and that scary.

Stiles tilts his head back until he can see a faintly fuzzy figure stalking towards them with a rifle held at their left side. Stiles recognizes that walk and he definitely recognizes the rifle.

"Wolfsbane bullets, Braeden?" Stiles asks.

"How else am I going to keep you in one piece, kid?"

Kid.

She says it like she's so much wiser and older than Stiles is, but for once, Stiles doesn't even try to keep up the banter. He slumps backward, nearly crashing into Nick in the process, and then laughs. It doesn't sound like his usual laugh, too high and thin to be anything _but_ panicked, but at that moment it's the only sound that Stiles can make.

"You have the _best_ timing," Stiles gasps when he can finally talk again.

Braeden grins, her white teeth a bright slash in the night.

"Only because you have the worst," she says. Reaching down, Braeden hauls Stiles to his feet. She's strong for a woman so small and she doesn’t have any trouble getting Stiles up. "Now where's the kid?"

Nick pads forward and then sits back on his haunches, gazing up at them with an expectant look in his eyes.

"Good, you're okay," Braeden says. There's no missing the way she glances at Stiles as if she's surprised that Nick is fine. It's a bit annoying but then… Stiles _does_ know his own track record. This is a pretty big deal.

"We did a good job, didn't we?" Stiles asks.

Braeden shrugs. "The night is still young," she points out.

"Gee… Thanks."

"Come on," Braeden says with a faint smile. "Now let's see how Scott, Allison, and Derek plan to deal with that old alpha." Braeden glances down at Nick and then reaches into her bag to pull out what looks like a pair of pajamas. "Oh. Scott sent some extra clothes for you in case you wanted to shift back."

Nick pauses, mouth dropped open.

Braeden taps her foot in the dirt. "Come on. Are you changing back now or –" Before she can even finish her sentence, Nick has already started shifting shape. By the time that she and Stiles have time to blink, Nick is standing in front of them, one hand reaching out to snatch the clothes from Braeden's hand.

He dresses in moments, putting his werewolf speed to good use. When he's done and dressed, Nick starts off in the direction of the chaos, only pausing when he realizes that Stiles and Braeden aren't right behind him.

"Well?" Nick asks over his shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

*

Outmatched and outnumbered, Marcus kneels in front of Scott and Allison with his head bowed. He looks subdued, but there's something about the set to his shoulders that Stiles doesn't like.

Marcus doesn't look cowed. He barely looks as if he's been roughed up aside from one of Allison's arrows jutting out of his arm. In fact, Stiles can't actually figure out why the guy is even on his knees.

Not at first.

Not until he notices Derek. Fully shifted with all of those wickedly curved teeth bared and his black fur thoroughly ruffled, Derek is even scarier as a wolf than he is in human form. And trust Stiles, the man's pretty scary on his own. On the ground with his hackles raised and his eyes focused on Marcus' jugular, Derek looks ready to tear out the man's throat. And Stiles knows Derek. He'd do it just so that no one else would have to.

No wonder Marcus isn't moving. That kind of killing instinct is hard to deal with.

"Here's how we're going to do this," Scott says as Stiles comes closer. "You and your people are going to leave Beacon Hills and you're not going to come back. Not for the Deveraux family and not for revenge." Scott bares his teeth in a smile that looks more like Derek's snarl. "You want to have a fight with Nick? Take it up with him when he's eighteen. But right now? You're on my territory and I don't let people hurt children."

At that, Nick tenses near Stiles' right side but stays silent.

Marcus rolls his shoulders but otherwise, he doesn't move as Allison tightens her grip on her bow and strengthens her stance. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm sorry," Scott says in a sarcasm laden drawl that makes Stiles feel so proud of his best friend. "But what part of that wasn't clear enough for you? If you or any member of your pack comes into _my_ territory to try and get back at the Deverauxes for any of this, you're going to regret it."

"But you're not going to kill me now," Marcus says with a too-confident note to his voice as he stares up at Scott. "Because you're _weak_."

At that, Scott laughs.

"Nah," Scott says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not weak. I don't think that violence and murder solve anything, but that doesn't mean that I'm weak or that my pack is." Scott's smile hardens and he crouches down in front of Marcus. "It just means that I give chances and you've already used up yours."

Beside him, Derek growls so loud that Marcus actually flinches.

"See? Derek agrees with me," Scott says. "Now you're going to collect your men and their bikes and you will be escorted out of Beacon Hills. If you try to turn around after that or you come back later, you will be dealt with." The open-ended threat sounds ominous enough to make Marcus reel and Stiles bite back a snorting burst of laughter.

Heedless of the danger he's in, Marcus struggles to get the last word in. "That – that _child_ is a menace," the older werewolf snarls. "You're going to regret it when he turns on you and tries to take your pack for his own."

Okay, now _that's_ hilarious.

Nick, for all of the snark and the sarcasm, is a good kid. He's a really good kid and a strong werewolf. When he's older sure, he'll have a pack all his own but it won't be this one.

"Do you even know what you sound like," Stiles says, speaking just loudly enough for Marcus and the others to hear him. "You're afraid of what a kid could do because it's something that _you'd_ do. Nick isn't like that. He's not like you."

Marcus' lip curls at the idea of Stiles addressing him. "And what would you know about that?"

" _Dude_ ," Stiles says with a sneer of his own. "All of my best friends are werewolves. I might not be one, but I definitely understand how they think. But you – you don't even try to figure that out and you _are_ one. That's just sad." Stiles crosses his arms over his chest as he looks at Scott. "Let's just get him out of here so we can get Isaac some help. This dude _really_ isn't worth it."

But what is worth it is the way that Scott smiles back at him and then gestures for Boyd and Erica to come forward.

"Get him and his men in the second van and call someone to pick up their bikes while you're at it," Scott says to the two of them. "And call me after you drop them off so I know that you're safe."

Boyd nods. "Will do."

Erica smiles. It's not a nice smile and Stiles shivers to see it. "I'll drive."

"Erica –" Scott pauses. "Try not to kill anyone."

"I won't make any promises," Erica says, smile widening as she helps Boyd haul Marcus to his feet. "You know how I get when I'm behind the wheel."

*

These days, it's not weird for everyone to converge on Deaton's animal hospital. It's the only place large enough to hold the entire pack and any extras that thy pick up and it's one of the safest places in Scott's territory.

By the time that Scott, Stiles, and the rest of the pack get to the clinic, Deaton already has Isaac taken care of. Stiles can't help the feeling of intense relief that hits him when he sees Isaac sitting on one of the gurneys with a smile on his face. Some part of him, some tiny part of fearful anxiety had assumed that Deaton wouldn't be able to help. It had been easy to assume that the poison was too much or that Isaac wouldn't be able to heal.

Thankfully, that part of Stiles' head is wrong.

"You're okay!" Stiles almost forgets himself. He almost dashes up to Isaac and hugs the dude but he doesn't because that would be weird. Instead, he settles for an easy saunter in Isaac's direction and a pat on the shoulder. Stiles is cool. So cool that he doesn't even yelp when Isaac slaps a hand dead center on his back in one of those so manly back-slaps.

"Of course I'm fine," Isaac says.

Deaton shakes his head as he walks toward them. "You're not fine yet. You need to stay off your feet and relax for a few days while your body recovers. You've been through a lot."

"Fine," Isaac says, sounding put out at first before he grins. "I'll _be_ fine, but for now, I just want to go home."

Stiles opens his mouth to say – something, anything – but before he can utter even a syllable, the Deveraux family bursts into the room and heads straight for them. They barely get a moment before they– sans Nick escapes the hugfest unscathed with Tabitha held in his arms– gathers both Stiles and Isaac up.

"Thank you," Lola Deveraux breathes against Stiles' ear. "Thank you for protecting my baby."

Stiles kind of flinches, unused to that kind of praise. "I didn't really do anything."

One of Etienne's massive hands comes down hard on Stiles' shoulder. "You found our son. You protected him. You brought him back to us," the older werewolf says with a suspicious sheen in his eyes that might be tears. "You did more for us than you know."

It's not that Stiles is uncomfortable with all of this emotion (except for how he _is_ ) but that this is the first time that he's ever gotten this kind of reception. He's helped Scott out like this before and he's definitely brought missing people back to their families, but to get a response like this –

It's mind-blowing.

"Isaac helped too," Stiles says, latching on to the only thing that he can remember clearly. "You should hug him some more." He pauses to think about that sounds and then, because he's not done being a dork, continues talking. "Oh! And Scott too because he's going to let you stay in Beacon Hills if you want."

Wow.

There's no way for Stiles to sound any more ridiculous, but the Deverauxes merely smile at him. It's… nice.

"We've already spoken to Scott," Lola says.

Etienne says, "We're staying."

Stiles thinks about it. About more people in their pack. More people that he _likes_ , at that. He thinks about helping Nick grow into a powerful werewolf and protecting Tabitha and honestly, that's just –

"Awesome!" For once, the right word comes out of Stiles' mouth and he smiles up at the two werewolves that are _still hugging him_. "You're going to love it here!"

Lola and Etienne share a warm look with one another an then turn their happy smiles on Stiles.

"We already do."

It's sappy.

So sappy.

But you know what?

Stiles totally understands what they mean. Despite the chaos and the confusion and all kinds of weird things that happen to him and his friends on a regular basis, Stiles wouldn't give up any of it. Not even if someone offered him money for the change.

_Later_

Tabitha Deveraux turns six in the middle of July.

The only logical thing to do is throw a picnic.

"Please try and remember to _cook_ the steak," Stiles calls out as he passes by the grill where Derek and Isaac have been holding everyone's meals hostage for the better part of an hour. "Just because some of you like your meat still mooing, that doesn't mean that anyone else does."

He's kidding. Kind of.

With the addition of the Deveraux family to Scott's pack, the amount of people who eat their steaks without blood running out of it are vastly outnumbered by everyone else. You know, the people who are just fine with Derek slapping a massive steak on the grill for thirty seconds a side and then deeming it done.

Stiles has to shudder at that.

He likes his steaks as bloody as the next (human) guy, but he's seen how Isaac eats his steak and he wants none of that. None of it at all.

Isaac grins as he uses a pair of tongs to flip a steak that's probably bigger than Stiles' head. "You're just jealous because we're going to get our food first," he teases. "You _can_ always try one of our steaks."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah? And wind up sick in the kiddie pool all day?" Stiles shakes his head. "We don't pay Scott's mom enough to deal with that sort of thing."

Derek looks away from his careful inspection of the platter of raw meat in front of him and turns so that he can look at Stiles and Isaac at the same time. His eyebrows draw down. "You don't pay her at all."

"Exactly," Stiles says in a triumphant tone. "Now _please_ , give me something that I can actually eat before I tell Scott that you're trying to starve me."

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


End file.
